I’ve been writing “Mrs. J. Shannon” on the insides of notebooks, the backs of books and on crumpled, diner napkins for approximately eleven years. When I first fell in love with Rich Shannon he had bleach blonde hair, a fabulous 90’s goatee, a tie-dyed Beatles tee-shirt and Birkenstocks. I was solidly in the pink tank top, jean short, tons of bracelets and sweatshirts with local band names camp. Still, we somehow managed to rise above our fashion differences and culture clashes and see something in one another that we had yet to find anywhere else.
Many phone calls after baseball practice, visits to the ice cream store his parents owned, our first date to see “Gladiator” in the theater (he swears it wasn’t a date, but it was-he paid, picked me up and tried to hold my hand. Clearly a date) moves to different states, different significant others, different lives planned later, when I sat down at the end of the day, it was still Mrs. Shannon on my notebook. God ordained it from the beginning.
Being a high school English teacher can occasionally make me sick of hearing my name over and over again. “Mrs. Shannon….Mrs. Shannon….” I hate that it’s sometimes so easy for me to forget how much I longed for someone to call me by that name.
I am more than proud to be Mrs. Shannon. To have married the man who coached more than 50 young boys dedicatedly, tenderly and fatherly over the course of 4 years and loved it so much he did it for free. The one who has made me my morning coffee every day for the last five and half years just the right way- cream, no sugar. Who does all my laundry. And folds it. And doesn’t shrink anything. Who goes to a job everyday that he less than loves so that he can provide for the life we’ve built together. Who sings to me and our daughter and teaches the both of us what worship really means. Who is a constant encourager, a support and a reminder of God’s faithfulness.
I love being Mrs. Shannon.